Jigsaw

When does a place stop being your own? When you leave, or when others do? Or with the realization that abstract concepts like home cannot be held down by the strings of concrete imaginations pointing fingers at what it should or should not be? Or by how nothing ever belongs to anyone – no, not even if you have a name tag or a medal or a certificate to show for it, because.. well, because, don’t you see how the fine print at the back reeks of an expiry date?

All The Nothings

I miss everything we never did.

Out Of Sync

I am not the kind of person who needs music.

I like music, I do. And almost every genre too. I would find myself nodding my head to whatever the bus ride offered; start humming the moment I find myself close in the company of the faintest sliver of a song and take it from there, much to the annoyance of whoever happens to be in the room with me at the time.

But I don’t need music. I can go without it for any length of time. I seldom find myself searching for a song to listen to, I am too lazy to bring together my own curated playlists and I have long stopped downloading songs onto my mobile device after 4G internet and streaming became a reality. I have always been jealous of people who know what songs to play when, and somehow manage to keep themselves updated with all the best songs out there. I am more of the person who copies their playlists and then forgets to ever play them on my own.

Okay, I suppose this has been a really long prologue to the epiphany at hand. It was with the discovery of Spotify that I learned something else.

Music terrifies me.